


Safer By Far

by SatiricalDraperies



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Cinderella Elements, F/M, Mistaken Identity, Slightly Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28255083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatiricalDraperies/pseuds/SatiricalDraperies
Summary: It isn'treallyÉowyn's fault that she can't reveal her identity to her handsome dance partner at a Gondorian ball after forgetting her court attire and disguising herself as just any old shieldmaiden, is it?
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020





	Safer By Far

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely mniiaros! this was such a pleasure to write, I hope you enjoy it and happy holidays :D

“You can’t wear armor to a ball!”

“Why not? The other shieldmaidens are.”

“They aren’t royalty, Éowyn.”

“Yes, well… I’m already wearing the armor. Would you rather I change into a dress and make us at least an hour late?”

“Fine,” Éomer sighs. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Faramir watches them arrive, riding right up to the front door in a tempest of dust and jangling metal. When the cloud dissipates, the heaving flanks of chestnut mounts and the distinctive green cloth, brown leather, and burnished steel leave no doubt. The Rohirrim have arrived. 

He continues to look out the window as the remaining few stragglers show up, although none of them make quite as dramatic an entrance. 

“Go away,” he says to whoever just opened the door to his room, though he has no idea who it could be, considering that everyone should be at the party taking place downstairs. 

“Is that any way to greet me?”

“Lothiriel?”

“The one and only.”

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” Faramir leaves his watch post to hug his cousin. “You look radiant.”

“As do you… I have to say, I’m a little surprised.”

“I had dirt on my nose at one party! That was what, fifteen years ago?”

“Only fourteen,” Lothiriel corrects. “And no, I’m never letting it go.”

“Fair enough. Shall we head down together?”

Lothiriel takes his offered arm. “Lead the way.”

* * *

“Your weapon, miss.”

Éowyn is about to protest, but she sees the disapproving look on Éomer’s face. If she were wearing her court attire as she should, the guards at Gondor most likely wouldn’t have made her relinquish her ceremonial sword. While she understands the security need for the majority of the Rohirrim to be unarmed, it doesn’t mean she enjoys the oddly light feeling of her belt without the sword attached. 

Likewise on the need to conceal her identity. Éomer is right. It would be disrespectful for the niece of the king of Rohan to arrive at a ball in armor rather than traditional royal dress. Safer by far for her to play the part of the mere shieldmaiden and leave Éomer to excuse Éowyn’s absence as sickness.

She hands the sword and scabbard over to the Gondorian guard and follows the rest of the Rohirrim into the party.

* * *

The party is in full swing when Faramir and Lothiriel step into the ballroom. As the band finishes their song and the dancing couples stop their spinning to bow to each other, Boromir emerges from the crowd to greet them at the edge of the room. 

“Enjoying yourselves yet?”

“I haven’t gotten the chance to dance yet, running after this one,” Lothiriel shoves Faramir’s arm playfully. He knows she isn’t actually mad, so he laughs and nudges her back.

“Well then, I suppose I must ask you for the next dance,” he bows and offers his hand. “May I?”

“You may.”

“I’ll catch up with you later, Lothiriel. Keep Faramir out of trouble, alright?”

“Me, get into trouble?” Faramir gasps and throws a hand over his chest in pretend shock. “I would never.”

“Sure you wouldn’t,” Lothiriel rolls her eyes. She grabs his hand and pulls them towards the dancing as the fiddles strike up a waltz.

They move across the room, twirling in time with the other dancers. The music shifts tempo and they form into two rows, clapping their hands with the beat and laughing as the couples dance down the line, shifting partners every few steps. At the end of the line, Lothiriel is swept up by the king of Rohan’s nephew Éomer. She winks at Faramir as the pair leaves his view.

He shifts his attention to his new partner. She’s wearing the armor of the shieldmaidens of Rohan. Even if she were only in a shift and simple linen dress, he would recognize the strength and grace of a trained fighter anywhere. 

“How was your journey here?” he asks partially out of politeness and partially out of a need to fill the space. There’s hardly anything worse than dancing with a complete stranger. 

“Well, if you’re asking, first the horse in front of me decided that he didn’t want to go to the party and would much rather stay home instead. Apparently he made a convincing argument because then I had to tell both horses to keep going forward, since the other rider clearly wasn’t going to do anything about it,” she pauses in her storytelling for Faramir to raise her into a lift. The dancers all spin slowly before lowering their partners back down.

“And then we encountered some _very_ scary leaves on the ground. Who would have guessed? Leaves! In fall!” she rolls her eyes and Faramir laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. Gondor may not have the same deep horseback tradition as Rohan, but he’s ridden his fair share of easily spooked horses in his time.

“It is a wonder you arrived at all,” he quips. “After _such_ a perilous journey.”

“A wonder indeed,” she says, smiling at him. Smiling!

“Despite it all,” he starts, growing bolder by the second. “I cannot bring myself to feel sorry for your travels all this way.”

“Oh?”

“If you had not arrived, who would I have danced with? I certainly could not have found a better partner in all of Gondor.”

“Nor I in Rohan, or anywhere else for that matter,” she moves in closer to him on the next step and Faramir instinctively moves his arms to hold her there.

“May I ask your name?”

She freezes suddenly, the lack of motion all the more stark compared to the dancers still stepping gracefully around them. 

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” he hastens to apologize, fumbling his way through the words. “I meant no disrespect—”

“I know you didn’t,” she says, but she won’t meet his eyes for the rest of the dance. Never has Faramir seen someone so relieved when the band finally stops. By the time he’s risen from his bow, she’s nowhere to be seen.

* * *

“You said he was polite to you, right? That has to mean something.”

“What, that he’s a decent person? I had already gathered that.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Éowyn. If it makes it any better, at least he didn’t know that it was you.”

“It doesn’t make it better! I thoroughly made a fool of myself in front of the best dance partner I’ve ever had _not to mention the son of the steward of Gondor_ , all because I couldn’t think of a false name quickly enough.”

“That is rather unfortunate,” Éomer concedes.

* * *

There’s a sword left behind. It isn’t much, but Faramir will take whatever little bit of hope he can find considering the circumstances. 

The shieldmaidens aren’t too helpful in his search. Apparently each of their swords have a unique set of markings that somehow tell absolutely nothing about the owner. And if that weren’t enough, none of the women he speaks to recognize the blade he carries, so he has just about nothing to go on.

He had assumed that, when the guards had one Rohirrim shieldmaiden sword with no owner to claim it at the end of the night, it belonged to his mysterious dance partner who had left in rather a rush. Now, as he’s beginning to run out of options, he worries that he may have been too optimistic in his chances of finding the sword’s owner _and_ that she’s the woman he’s looking for. 

“Faramir!” Éomer finds him outside the shieldmaiden barracks. “I had heard you had stopped by. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“This, actually,” Faramir hands him the sword. “It was left behind at the party last week. I was hoping to find its owner.”

Éomer examines the blade briefly before his eyes widen and he passes it back. “Stay here a moment.”

Faramir waits in the middle of the thoroughfare, trying not to appear as uncomfortably out of place as he feels. After what seems like an eternity, Éomer finally returns, bringing along a beautiful woman wearing white. 

“My sister, Éowyn,” he says by way of introduction before winking at Éowyn and rapidly making his exit. 

“I believe this is yours,” Faramir offers the sword to Éowyn, who blushes and accepts it. 

“My apologies for leaving so quickly,” Éowyn says. “It had nothing to do with your company.”

“So you did like my company,” he grins. “May I ask for the pleasure of yours at dinner tonight?”

“There is nothing I’d like more,” she says, then smiles. “I’ll try not to leave my sword behind this time.”


End file.
